First Aid
by Joodiff
Summary: Set sometime early in series 5. Boyd has a misadventure, Grace offers assistance. But things are never quite that simple, are they? T-rated for language. Complete. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

 **A/N:** _I broke my ankle a couple of weeks ago, and whether it's partly the pain and inconvenience of that, or something else altogether, I don't know, but I've really been struggling to write anything just recently, so when a tiny idea popped into my head, I thought I'd try a little ficlet. I guess I'll dedicate it to everyone who's valiantly tried to cheer me up over the last couple of weeks. Thanks, all. :)_

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 **First Aid**

by Joodiff

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It's not particularly late, only a little past six, but outside Grace's office door the CCU's squad room is now still and quiet, the younger members of the unit's core investigative team having left for the night – Spencer in the kind of dark, surly mood that has been clinging to him for months, on and off, and Stella in a quick, nervous flurry of last-minute tasks and awkward farewells. Whether Felix is still hard at work in the lab, Grace doesn't know, but it's irrelevant anyway – in the depths of the building the squad room is finally quiet, and without the distraction of background chatter and movement, and the periodic interruptions of her colleagues, she has high hopes of finishing the report she's been trying to complete all afternoon in time to make it home at a decent hour. Early enough, maybe, to actually relax and enjoy something of the evening instead of half-heartedly snatching a quick meal and then slumping exhausted on the sofa to watch just the very end of the late news. Flexing her fingers, she reads back the last few sentences, forcing her mind back to the Fuller case, and what needs to be passed to Boyd.

The sound of brisk footsteps on the stairs beyond the glass partition behind her heralds the return of the man himself. As far as Grace knows, he's been up on the second floor haranguing CID's DI Hardy about her team's failure to pass on important information about James Fuller to the basement-dwellers, a task that could more easily have been accomplished over the telephone, or via an imperious email summons to his office, but if Grace knows Boyd at all – and she does – appearing suddenly in person in Hardy's domain will not only have given him the opportunity to work off a little pent-up energy, but will also have provided an excellent opportunity for some loud and therapeutic shouting. Putting the fear of God into the junior ranks is, it seems, much more fun when done unexpectedly and at maximum volume.

He passes her closed door at speed, one hand casually raised in greeting as he goes, and disappears into his own office without a word. It's no real gauge of his mood, that failure to stop and talk, Grace knows, though the omens are good given that he doesn't slam his own door behind him. She's certain that one day the glass panels will shatter completely under the weight of his temper and impatience instead of merely rattling ominously in their wooden frames. She watches as he settles behind his desk, and then, when she's absolutely sure he's not going to bounce back to his feet again like some demonic Jack-in-the-box, she turns back towards her keyboard. He may yet appear at her door to interrupt her, but if he gets engrossed in whatever it is he's intending on doing, on past experience it's unlikely she'll see or hear anything of him until she's ready to depart for the night.

Starting to type, Grace does not expect the sudden angry roar that makes her jump in her seat and simultaneously snap her head round to glare in his direction again. She doesn't notice the mistyped words she leaves behind her as she quickly gets up to investigate the reason for the loud bellow. Through the glass she can only see Boyd clutching his temple with one hand as he hurls something unidentifiable but quite small across the room with the other. Rolling her eyes at the unfolding tantrum, she leaves her office for his, not bothering to knock as she opens the door to demand, "Boyd? What the…?"

" _Fucking thing!_ " he bawls, which, though expressive, is far from helpful. Wild dark eyes glare her with what she considers an entirely unnecessary amount of resentment. "Where the fuck is that homicidal French – "

"Stella?" she queries, cutting across his incipient tirade. "Gone home, why? Wait… what have you done to yourself?"

It's not an unreasonable question. There's blood on the fingers of the hand still clamped to his left temple, and as Grace moves closer she can see that a few drops of crimson have already splashed down onto the official paperwork spread out before him. Clearly he's not badly injured, but the fact that he's injured at all is rather startling. How on earth, she wonders, can he have managed to hurt himself simply sitting quietly at his desk?

Boyd's free hand slams down onto the bloated cardboard folder half-spilling its contents out onto his desk. "Bulldog clip."

Presumably the object thrown across the room, of which there is no immediate sign. Things start to make a little more sense. The cardboard folder is thick with A4 pages – bulging, even. The metal clip used to secure everything in place must have been under considerable tension, and when he absent-mindedly reached for it…

"I'll get the First Aid kit," Grace says, ignoring the baleful look he gives her in response. It's a practical response, one that has the added benefit of allowing her to smirk unnoticed. When she returns to his office with the well-stocked green plastic box, Boyd is prodding at the injury in an experimental, fascinated sort of way that reminds her of a small child who's stopped screaming the place down long enough to become morbidly impressed by the sight of their own blood. Advancing on him, she asks, "Now, are you going to be a brave little soldier for me?"

"Piss off, Grace," is his immediate reply, but his tone carries less belligerence than before. "Bloody thing could have had my eye out!"

"Could have," she agrees, perching on the edge of his desk to open the box, "but didn't. Maybe you should have been paying a little more attention to what you were doing?"

"Who says I wasn't?"

"Were you?" she inquires, all innocence.

Boyd glares again. "Not the damn point, Grace. Honestly, that girl's a bloody liability."

Refraining from sighing, she says, "I thought we'd agreed that you'd give her a fair chance?"

"I _have_ given her a fair chance. I _am_ giving her a fair chance." He holds out his bloodstained fingers for inspection. "And look how she repays me."

Grace can't restrain her increasing mirth any longer. The glower she receives in response only makes her chuckle all the more. It's the mixed look of sulky annoyance and wounded outrage that does it. She doesn't know another man who can look quite as petulant as Peter Boyd can when he puts his mind to it. Extracting a sterile swab from its packaging, she accuses, "You're such a drama queen, Boyd. Hold still."

The gash isn't deep, won't need stitches, but where the edge of the metal clip caught the thin skin just to the side of his eye socket it's carved a neat, narrow and very bloody track that extends back an inch or more across his temple. Superficial, but gory – and apparently quite painful, given the way Boyd winces when she dabs at it with the swab. Schooling her expression into solemn calm, she announces, "Unqualified as I am to judge, I think you'll probably live."

"I'll just be scarred for life, don't tell me."

Still dabbing at the seeping blood, Grace pats his shoulder with her free hand. It's almost a surprise how solid the muscle and bone beneath the expensive tailoring feels. Determined not to think about such things, she counters, "Good looks aren't everything, Boyd."

One dark eyebrow quirks at her, an enigmatic thoughtfulness settling over his features. Inwardly, Grace curses herself for the unintentional ambiguity of her tone. She's glad when he doesn't comment, but even so she can't help feeling increasingly flustered by his steady gaze and their unusual proximity… something else she really doesn't want to think about. Silly, pointless midnight fantasies that are embarrassing at best, and –

"Ouch," he says, sounding reproachful.

"Sorry," she apologises, realising just how vigorous her dabbing has become. "Maybe if you didn't fidget so much…"

"I'm not fidgeting," Boyd retorts, the spurious denial made all the more laughable by the way he tries to edge away from her over-rough ministrations. It's Grace's turn to glare, but though he subsides for a moment, he flinches as soon as she closes with the swab again.

There's only one thing for it. And if he doesn't like it, well, it's his own damn fault.

She takes her chance and seizes his chin, attempting to hold his head still. Hopes she doesn't look anything like as startled and disconcerted by the experience as he does. The whiskery sensation of his beard beneath her fingers is far softer than she expects, the bristles nowhere near as harsh and wiry as they look. Square, heavy jawbone beneath. Sudden tension in surprised muscles that briefly try to resist her impudent grasp. Something like electricity travelling the entire length of her arm, prickling through nerves Grace barely knew she had. It takes a conscious amount willpower not to snatch her hand away as if burned.

"Sit _still_ ," she commands, exasperation disguising her discomfiture. "Honestly, Boyd, you're worse than a child."

"It _hurts_ ," he grumbles in reply, but despite the bad-tempered growl he doesn't pull his head back, doesn't fight against her determined grip. Lapsing into sullen silence, he glowers as she finishes cleaning the blood away from the small cut and then releases him to rifle through the first aid box in search of a suitable sticking plaster. Even not looking in his direction, Grace can feel the strength of his relentless gaze. It would be amusing if it wasn't quite so unsettling.

It doesn't seem to matter how much time passes, how thoroughly they get to know each other, or how often they end up bickering over the most pointless of things, there are still moments, moments like these, when the power of the inexplicable, erratic undercurrent of mutual attraction catches her – and maybe not just _her_ – by complete surprise. The ridiculous, dangerous spark of… something… that can ignite without warning between them at the most inappropriate of times. She doesn't need to look at Boyd to know that something of what she's thinking and feeling will be visible in his eyes. There are times when she knows he feels it, too, that crackling, unacknowledged tension that speaks of things that can never be. Whether he really understands what it is he feels at those times is another matter entirely, one she doesn't dare attempt to analyse.

"Here," she says, a little too loud in the near-silence of the day's end, "since you've been such a brave boy, you can have an extra-large plaster to show off with."

His voice is dry. "Well, thanks, Grace."

The moment has passed, and she's grateful for it. Something lingers between them, though, and she's not the only one who can sense it, not from the intense but guarded way Boyd watches as she leans in to apply the sticking plaster to his temple. Her fingertips brush against his skin, and she's almost sure he moves into the touch, just a fraction. Nothing in his expression changes, however, he just keeps watching her with that same intent concentration, saying nothing as she presses down on the sticky edges of the plaster.

It shouldn't be erotic, not in any way. But it is. Almost. In a strange, oblique way that she tries to ignore. Touching him, being so very close to him when they're alone together and everyone else is long-gone.

"There," she says, all-but snatching back her hand. "Happy now?"

"No," he says, every bit as predictable as he is gloomy.

She sighs, making sure Boyd hears it. Maybe it's his hangdog expression, maybe it's her growing exasperation, she doesn't know, but something makes her speak without thinking. And what she says is, "Oh, for God's sake. Do you want me to kiss it better, too?"

He doesn't laugh away the inadvisable suggestion. It's a mistake – for both of them. Instead, he lifts his chin a sulky fraction and offers a childish, defiant, "Yes."

A joke? A dare? Grace doesn't know. Nonplussed, she stares at him. It feels like a lifetime of being lost in frightening questions that don't have easy answers, but in reality barely a split-second passes before she leans forward again. It could be the bravest, stupidest, most impulsive thing she's ever done. She doesn't know. Or care. The lightest, gentlest brush of her lips against his temple, just above the covered wound. Brief, hardly a kiss at all. Means nothing. Means everything.

This time she draws back even further and faster, needing to put distance between them. She has a notion she sounds a little husky as she inquires, "Better?"

Those eyes, those deep, intelligent dark eyes – they burn with a strange inner fire that's every bit as tempting as it is exciting.

She has no idea what he might say or do next. It's exhilarating, it's terrifying. Endless possibilities, limitless dangers, and all of them –

Light, quick footsteps on the concrete steps beyond the glass partition, a guilty start from her, a jerk of the head from him. Felix Gibson, heading towards his still-open office door.

And for Grace and Boyd, another door, an intangible, frustrating door that only exists in the highly-charged space between them, slams firmly closed on all the evening's might-have-beens…

 _\- the end -_


End file.
